Rothrosia castle yard, chaos reigned. Sir Geoffrey, a seasoned Knight Errant stood at the forefront, his silver armor glinting dully under the overcast sky. He swung his sword with practiced precision, directing the defense team with a commanding presence that belied the turmoil around him.

"Hold your positions, lads!" he roared, his voice cutting through the cacophony of clashing steel and magical blasts. "We must not let them breach the castle walls!"

Arrows flew from the parapets above, streaking toward the dark silhouettes of the witches who hovered menacingly in the sky. The witches cackled, weaving in and out of the arrows' paths with supernatural agility, their wands glowing ominously as they fired bolts of destructive magic down on the beleaguered defenders.

A nearby soldier stumbled up to Sir Geoffrey, his face pale and streaked with dirt. "Sir! The magic circle is almost down!" he shouted over the din, his voice trembling with fear.

"What?!" Sir Geoffrey's eyes widened, his grip tightening around his sword. The magical barrier that protected the castle had held strong for centuries, a testament to the kingdom's power and resilience. But now, under the relentless assault of these witches, it was crumbling. "Where are the mages when we need them?" he barked, his voice tinged with frustration and anger.

Above the castle, the witches swooped and dove like a swarm of malevolent birds, their laughter echoing through the courtyard as they coordinated their attacks. Lightning crackled from their wands, striking the castle defenses with deadly precision. Soldiers were thrown through the air, their screams lost amidst the explosions and the roar of crumbling stone.

"Get those archers firing again!" Sir Geoffrey ordered, his voice hoarse from shouting.

All around him, the castle yard was a scene of chaos. Debris flew through the air as walls crumbled under the relentless bombardment. Soldiers scrambled to defend their positions, their faces set with grim determination despite the odds stacked against them. Archers on the walls loosed volley after volley of arrows, but the witches were too quick, their movements too erratic to be easily hit.

One of the witch cackled wildly as her spell struck another group of soldiers, transforming them into a giant, steaming pile of turd. "Turn into poo, you turn into poo!" she sang, waving her wand with glee.

"Enough with the turd spell, Sister!" one of the other witches snapped, her voice sharp and commanding. "It's time." With a stern look, she gestured to the sky, and the five witches broke away from their chaotic attack, soaring higher into the air while forming a circle high above the castle, their silhouettes ominous against the roiling clouds.

The air grew heavy, the sky darkening as their voices rose in intensity. A swirling vortex of black clouds began to form within their circle, crackling with malevolent energy. Sir Geoffrey's eyes widened in alarm as he realized something monstrous was about to happen.

And then, with a deafening roar, the vortex burst open, and a massive figure plummeted from the sky, landing in the castle yard with a ground-shaking thud. Dust and debris flew everywhere, obscuring the monstrous shape for a moment. When the dust settled, a collective gasp echoed from the soldiers around as they beheld the creature that now stood before them.

It was an ogre, but not just any ogre. This beast was colossal, towering at least twenty meters high, its single, bloodshot eye glaring down at the soldiers with malevolent fury. Its grotesque, muscled body was covered in thick, leathery skin, and its gnarled hands clenched around a massive club made from what looked like the trunk of an ancient tree.

The ogre threw back its head and let out a bone-rattling roar that reverberated through the castle walls, shaking the very ground beneath the soldiers' feet. Many of them stumbled back, their faces pale with terror. Some dropped their weapons, too paralyzed with fear to move.

But Sir Geoffrey stood his ground, his face set with grim determination. "Stand your ground, lads!" he shouted, his voice ringing out above the chaos. "On me!" He raised his sword high, a beacon of defiance against the overwhelming might of the creature before them. "We must protect the castle!"

The ogre's club swung down with devastating force, smashing into the ground where a group of soldiers had been standing moments before. They scattered, narrowly avoiding being crushed, but the shockwave sent them sprawling.

"Archers! Aim for the eye!" Sir Geoffrey yelled, ducking beneath another swipe from the ogre's massive hand. "Bring this beast down!"

Above them, the witches cackled with glee, watching the chaos they had unleashed. The battle for Rothrosia had taken a dark and dangerous turn, and the defenders were fighting with everything they had to hold the line against the monstrous invader.

Miraculously, Sir Geoffrey managed to hold his ground. "Fire!!" he yelled, his voice carrying over the din of battle. A volley of arrows shot into the sky, their tips gleaming as they arced toward the ogre's massive, bloodshot eye. The soldiers below held their breath, watching as the arrows neared their target.

But just as the arrows were about to strike, the ogre let out an ear-splitting roar, a sound so powerful it sent shockwaves rippling through the air. The arrows were scattered like leaves in a storm, spinning off harmlessly into the distance. Soldiers stumbled back, clutching their ears in pain, the sheer force of the roar enough to knock some to their knees.

Above, the witches cackled gleefully, watching the scene unfold with wicked delight. "Hahaha! You think your puny arrows can harm our pet?" one of them taunted, her voice dripping with mockery.

Suddenly, a shadow passed over the castle yard, and a fierce screech filled the air. The witches looked up, their laughter faltering as something swooped down upon them with the speed of a diving hawk. They scattered in every direction, their formations breaking as they tried to avoid the new threat.

It was the Royal Mage, Angus, riding atop a magnificent griffon-like creature with wings as wide as a barn door and a body the size of an adult horse. The beast's feathers shimmered gold and white in the dim light, its powerful wings beating furiously as it soared through the air. Angus, his long white beard flowing behind him and his almost pointy hat tilted slightly askew, gripped the reins with one hand, his other hand crackling with arcane energy.

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His eyes, sharp and piercing, narrowed as he looked down at the chaos below. "Foul creatures!" he bellowed, his voice booming over the battlefield. "Your reign of terror ends here! I shall smite you down!"

The witches, momentarily stunned by the sudden arrival of the griffon and its formidable rider, exchanged wary glances. But their leader, the one with the most sinister grin, recovered first. "Try as you may, old fool, but you will never stop us!" she shrieked, her wand sparking with dark energy. "Hehehe, not today, not ever!"

With that, the witches regrouped, their wands glowing with malice as they circled around Angus and his griffon. The air was thick with tension, the sky above crackling with magical energy as both sides prepared to unleash their full might.

Below, Sir Geoffrey and the soldiers watched in awe as the aerial duel unfolded above them. "The Royal Mage!" someone breathed, hope flickering in their eyes for the first time since the battle began.

But the ogre, undeterred by the spectacle above, let out another earth-shaking roar and charged forward, swinging its massive club with reckless abandon. Sir Geoffrey snapped back to attention, his eyes narrowing as he raised his sword once more.

"Steady, lads!" he called out, rallying the men around him. "The mages will deal with the witches. We take down the ogre!"

With renewed determination, the soldiers closed ranks around their commander, their faces set with grim resolve as they prepared to face the towering beast once more. Above them, the battle raged on, the sky alight with the clash of magic and the defiant cries of the Royal Mage.

In the distance, beyond the castle walls, a single horse raced across the battlefield, its hooves pounding against the earth in a desperate rhythm. Atop it rode Sir Francis the Brave, his eyes narrowed with determination and concern as he charged toward the besieged castle entrance. Even from afar, he could make out the flashes of light and bursts of energy from the fierce battle above, the Royal Mage locked in a deadly dance with the coven of witches. The air crackled with magical energy, and the sky above the castle was a maelstrom of chaos.

As he neared, his gaze shifted to the massive, hulking figure of the ogre, its enormous body partially hidden by the castle walls. The gravity of the situation struck Sir Francis like a blow to the gut. He knew Rothrosia was in dire peril, and every second counted.

But as he reached the castle entrance, a new problem emerged. The castle was surrounded by a moat, the dark waters of the river swirling ominously below. The only way in was the massive drawbridge, currently raised and sealed shut. Beyond the walls, the gatehouse mechanism that controlled it had been destroyed in the initial attack, a casualty of the witches' relentless assault.

"Lower the gate!" Sir Francis shouted, his voice echoing futilely against the thick stone walls. But amidst the chaos inside, his cries went unheard, drowned out by the clash of steel and the roar of the ogre.

Desperation clawed at him as he frantically searched for another way in. His eyes darted across the landscape, scanning for any possible solution. And then, something caught his attention—a catapult, standing idle not far from the entrance, its massive frame looming like a wooden beast in the chaos of the battlefield.

"Hmmm," he murmured to himself, a spark of idea appear.

At the castle yard Sir Geoffrey and his men struggling to hold their ground as the massive ogre pounded against their defenses. The beast's enormous fists hammered down on the barricades, sending splinters and debris flying through the air. Some soldiers were thrown back, others stumbled, but still, they held firm, refusing to yield.

And then, out of nowhere, a faint yet unmistakable scream echoed through the chaos. It was high-pitched, drawn out, and growing louder by the second.

"Aaaaaa—!"

Sir Geoffrey's brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes scanning the battlefield. "What in the—?" He barely had time to react before one of his men pointed up, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Look up there! I think I saw—"

The soldiers' eyes turned skyward, their jaws dropping as they caught sight of the figure hurtling through the air. It was Sir Francis, hurtling down like a human cannonball, his sword held out in front of him, his hair whipping wildly in the wind as he rocketed toward the ogre's enormous eye.

"Great heavens!" Sir Geoffrey gasped, eyes widening as he watched the knight's insane trajectory.

High above, the witches and the Royal Mage Angus continued their furious battle, completely unaware of the spectacle unfolding below.

Sir Francis was so close now that he could see the vile glint in the ogre's eye, its mouth opening wide for another thunderous roar. He tightened his grip on his sword, aiming directly for the ogre's pupil, his mind racing. Almost there... almost there...

But just as he was about to strike, a blinding flash of light split the sky. A bolt of raw magical energy, crackling with power, shot down from above, slamming into the ogre's massive head. The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the air, the sheer force of it lifting the ogre off the ground and sending soldiers flying.

"Eh?" Sir Francis muttered in bewilderment, his eyes widening as he found himself caught in the shockwave. His body jerked violently to the side, the momentum of the blast sending him spinning wildly off course.

He flailed helplessly as the blast's force sent him flying over the castle walls, his arms and legs pinwheeling through the air. His confused, comically shocked expression was frozen in place as he soared, completely out of control.

With a mighty splash, Sir Francis crashed into the river below, disappearing beneath the churning waters.

The ogre, now charred and smoking, lay lifeless on the ground. Its massive, burnt form sprawled across the battlefield, steam rising from its still body.

Sir Geoffrey and his men stood frozen in place, their faces masks of shock and disbelief. Even the witches, high above in the sky, and the Royal Mage Angus, hovering on his griffon, were momentarily silent, their battle forgotten as all eyes turned to the smoldering spot where the blinding energy blast had struck.

Slowly, the smoke and dust began to clear, revealing a figure standing amidst the scorched earth. He was young, barely more than a boy, and his appearance was unlike anything the people of Rothrosia had ever seen. While they were dressed in their medieval garb—chainmail, leather armor, tunics, and cloaks—the stranger was clad in an outfit entirely foreign to their world. He wore a crisp white shirt, neatly tucked into sleek, dark pants. On his feet were strange, spotless white shoes that looked softer and cleaner than any footwear they had ever encountered.

The soldiers exchanged bewildered glances, their eyes wide with confusion. Sir Geoffrey's mouth hung open, words failing him for perhaps the first time in his life. The witches, who had moments ago been cackling and casting their deadly spells, hovered in stunned silence, their gazes locked on the strange young man.

Suddenly, the boy threw his head back and let out a piercing cry, a sound filled with pain and fury. His body tensed, and from him erupted bolts of lightning, crackling and arcing wildly in all directions. The witches screamed as the lightning struck them, the bolts of energy zapping through the air with terrifying speed.

"Sisters, retreat!" one of them shrieked, her voice laced with panic. The witches turned and fled, their hasty retreat a blur of frantic movement as they shot across the sky, disappearing into the clouds.

The young man's body convulsed as the last of the lightning surged from him, the energy dissipating into the air with a sizzling crackle. His eyes rolled back, and with a soft, almost gentle thud, he collapsed face-down onto the ground, unconscious.

...

At a riverbank far from the castle, Sir Francis struggled onto the shore, drenched and exhausted. He collapsed onto the muddy ground, his breaths ragged and labored. "Ugh," he groaned, pain and frustration etched on his face. With a last, desperate effort, he turned onto his back, blinking at the sky above as his vision blurred.

"The castle…" he whispered hoarsely, a sense of urgency in his voice. But his strength gave out, and the world faded to black as he coughed up a mouthful of water.

His body went limp, unconsciousness taking hold.